


What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Suffer

by BurningGalaxies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mind Palace, More like Mind Madness, PTSD Sherlock, Second chapter coming soon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:44:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningGalaxies/pseuds/BurningGalaxies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfortunately, his mind palace consisted of... well... his mind. Not only did it hold information he decided was crucial, but it also harbored many things the average human being wouldn't think twice about.</p>
<p>Things he'd rather not think about at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Suffer

The door to 221b Baker Street slammed behind him with resounding finality. Heavy footsteps climbed the flight of stairs, taking him to his safe haven not nearly quick enough, but as fast as his limbs would allow. It seemed ages to him with each step, the weight on his shoulders growing steadily during his ascent.

 

_Freak_. Two steps through the door.

 

_Pyschopath_. One half step to reach the coat rack. A total of fifteen seconds spent tearing off his coat and dropping it to the floor anyway. What did it even matter?

 

_Sadist_. Sixteen steps to the couch, one more than strictly necessary. He collapsed into it, not able to physically support himself right now. He doesn't want to, he thinks, as he sinks further into the cushion. He's tired. That's all it is. It'll pass, it always does.

 

The thought never really numbs the process.

 

_Outcast_. He took a deep breath and braced himself for what was to come. It's very peculiar, considering he should be happy if anything. A solved case never ceased to satisfy his endless craving for a challenge. Nothing could even compare to that feeling of triumph.

 

Yet there he was, that feeling blooming somewhere in the deepest, darkest parts of his chest. Every now and then, they just... happen. There's no logic to it whatsoever. _I should be happy._

 

_No_ , he corrected himself, _I shouldn't feel anything._ Sociopaths aren't supposed to have this problem. This- this thing, whatever it was, it didn't make sense. Even a high functioning Sociopath couldn't screw up so horrendously on the one thing in their life that defined them. He has nothing, so that's what he's most likely doing. He's destroying the blissful nothing that makes up his very personality and he doesn't even know how.

 

_Know it all_ . Where were these words coming from? Pesky, annoying words that weren't important. Why did they demand his attention? _Show off_.

 

"Stop it," He forced himself to say, hearing the battle for sanity in his own words. "Leave me alone."

 

_Alone? Oh, that's rich. Don't you see? All you are is alone! You do this to yourself!_

 

"Shut up." He breathed into one of the cushions, smashing it against his chest as if it could do a thing to stop the pounding ache filling it. God, it hurt. There's something wrong, there must be. He distinctly remembered getting kicked in the chest some time before, not too long ago. That had to be it.

 

_Don't try to fool yourself..._ The voice warned in a sing-song tone. _Wouldn't want to add yourself to the list of people you've lied to, now would you?_ He felt his heartbeat going irregular and grasped the cushion tighter before breathing in deeply, setting his chin in a determined manner. "Fine. If you won't shut up on your own, I'll make you."

 

_I'd love to see you try._

 

He'd gotten so used to disappearing from the world- both physically and mentally- that merely closing his eyes was enough to shut down the reality around him and retreat to the only place in the world with data worth his time. Faded flower-print wallpaper and old wooden floors morphed into cream coloured walls and polished ceramic tiles. His real home was his mind palace, the most important and beautiful thing he had in his possession. Unfortunately, his mind palace consisted of... well... his mind. Not only did it hold information he decided was crucial, but it also harbored many things the average human being wouldn't think twice about.

 

Things he'd rather not think about at all.

 

In fact, he'd pushed these thoughts so far away into his palace that he couldn't remember their exact threat. He assumed he didn't need to know this, of course, because he would have remembered it if he needed to. He could feel it still, as he rushed through the abandoned corridors of his mind, the feeling associated with whatever was currently setting him off. It was bordering painful, looming over his head like an invisible cloud. Always on edge, always expecting intense pain, and always, _always_ sensing something dangerous waiting for him around the corner.

 

_Oh no..._ the voice tutted, louder as its words echoed through his head like an alarm. _The Great detectives found himself in a jam._

 

He started running, searching anxiously for the right place as door after door flew by him in a blur. Some held good memories, some held bad. He wasn't sure which was which and he didn't care. Right then, he had to find the source of his problems and finally destroy it, before it destroyed him.

 

_Where's his trusty sidekick now? Can't be bothered to follow his best friend into his dream world? Shame..._

 

He climbed a series of stairs, nearly to his destination. He knew where he was going; he had been there multiple times before. The walls started changing, chipping at the corners. The lights overhead flickered. The sound of his shoes pounding the tile was almost deafening, but not enough to drown out the insistent voice drilling into his focus.

 

_Well, he couldn't do much for you here anyway, could he? Useless. Almost as useless as you._

 

_Don't listen to it. Keep going. You have to keep going._ He reminded himself, everything grinding to a slowing stop at the very last hallway. It was darker here, only a single lightbulb hanging by a thread hung in the middle of the cracked ceiling, throwing shadows over the severely damaged walls. Only one door took residence at the very end, a beaten up vault, worn over the years.

 

_Looks like you found it. Bully for you, remembering where it is. But I'll tell you something right now..._

 

Everthing moved in slow motion. He tried moving forward, but it was almost as if he were stuck, cemented in place. Something moved behind the vault, a dent appeared in the heavy iron door. Then another. And another. The light flickered.

 

_If you think that you can just shove the truth away, time and time again whenever you please..._

 

In an instant, he snapped forward, pressing himself against the vault in a vain attempt to hold back what was fighting to be released. He grunted with the effort, straining every muscle in his body to keep it shut. He couldn't let it get him now, not after all the time he spent repressing this monster, expanding the vault to make room for it the more it grew. But he failed to notice the more it grew, the more it refused to be ignored.

 

_Then you are in for a big, big surprise._

 

Thin wisps off a black, smoke like substance broke through the cracks inches away from his fingertips, drifting just past his face. His eyes widened in shock as he recoiled, taking several steps backwards to avoid coming in contact with it.

 

_It's show time!_

 

He couldn't do anything as he watched in horror, a heavy _clank, clank, clank_ vibrating through the hall from the other side of the vault. The noise receded and the door opened, slowly creaking to a stop once it was wide open, revealing nothing but the darkness beyond. Everything went silent. The light went out.

 

Then everything happened at once.

 

The hall burst into blinding white light, forcing him to shield his eyes with his arm as he took a wavering step backwards. Wincing against the bright onslaught that blurred his vision, he began to take notice of black streaks spiking through the stark white filling the space, reaching out for him... Instinct kicked in and he turned, stumbled, surveying for any direction to run in. It didn't matter, he just needed to run.

 

But there was- there was nothing. No staircase, no corridor, no ground of any sort. He couldn't analyze any escape route because there was nothing there but white space, a blank paper. He didn't dare turn, but he felt it coming, even if he felt he was moving like he was trying to. He couldn't escape... it was going to get him... He was briefly aware of a sharp ringing in his ears, and then it caught up.

 

Several dark tendrils of smoke curled around his peripheral vision, seemingly intangible. But then they pressed closer, one of the largest ones wrapping around his waist. He cried out, twisting and kicking to no avail. More and more joined in, wrapping around his struggling arms and legs, his torso and his neck. They constricted like live snakes, tightening and choking off his desperate grunts and shouts. One last wisp covered his head, slithering down his throat, cutting off every possible way of breathing and then some.

 

For one split second, there was nothing but black. Not unconsciousness, but a horrifying moment where he swore his eyes were open, and they couldn't see anything. In less than a snap, his world was righted again and he was released, dropping to a coughing, retching heap on the grass. Confusion rang like a bell in his subconscious when he ran his fingers through what he was sure was grass.

 

He dared opening his eyes and nearly threw up when he recognized the park he was stuck in. Bringing himself to his feet, he swallowed thickly, taunting voices sounding in the distance. A turn of his head confirmed his fears, a group of school kids- barely ten years old in age- gathered in a circle around the single boy, his electric blue eyes glaring with pure hatred at each of their faces. The man stood so far away, yet he could make out the scene crystal clear. Suddenly, he was the boy, trying his hardest to ignore their laughing.

 

_You're such a clueless idiot!_ One smirked, leering down at him. A small voice replied hesitantly "I'm not an idiot." And he knew it belonged to him. Another round of laughter followed.

 

_What kind of twisted bloke would want to be a pirate for a living?_ And he remembered. He was seeing it here and now, replaying in his mind as if it were actually happening. He felt the crisp essay paper crumple in his fist along with his one childhood dream. He felt the burning shame in his face and he remembered the exact amount of pebbles at his feet when he turned away.

 

_Stop it._ He ordered his younger self to look up as he lashed out at the mocking faces. He was angry. Such an annoying feeling, anger. Before he could even begin to regret complicating his situation, the faces rippled like disturbed water, the grey outdoors dissolving into another scene at his touch. Now he was in the dull waiting room of the hospital, screaming and pounding on the doors, but they wouldn't let him in. People passed by wearing sympathy on their faces like masks. No one tried to stop him, but no one let him in. They were going to kill Redbeard and there was nothing he could do about it…

 

A strong hand on his shoulder, turning him- No, yanking him around, forcing him to look him in the eyes. _It's his time. You don't get to decide his fate, for God's sake, stop acting like a child!_

 

He broke away, shaking his head. No, no, this wasn't real. He had to find a way out of this, if there was one. There had to be, there always was. He clutched his head harder as the apparition of his father shouted after him, trying his hardest to think. _A door_ , he thought, all he needed was a _door_.

 

As he was walking away, he went straight through a nurse, stopping dead in the streets of London. It was dark, and the street lights were flickering, blinking rapidly as the sound of pounding footsteps rushed towards him. He didn't have to turn to know it was the fake version of himself, chasing after a criminal that would never be caught.

 

He would realize his mistake in exactly five point six seconds, hear the gunshot right about now- yes, that was it, he would watch as the victim fell to the ground, stop chasing the murderer, and just watch. He'd stand there, breathless, watching the life bleed from the client and her case he had so arrogantly accepted. Lestrade would finally round the corner, and he'd stop too. He would look him directly in the eyes and he would know that the other had failed.

 

He didn't need to turn because he saw it happen right in front of him. His memories were too vivid, too real, he had to remind himself that they weren't really happening.

 

But they had happened once.

 

Again, the dull ache revved to life, trying it's hardest to slowly claw through his chest. He whipped around, looking for some sort of escape from this memory while wrapping his coat around himself tighter. The light from the streets reflected off of a brass doorknob not far to his left, revealing itself the moment he hoped to find it. Out of sheer stupidity, he would realize, he had all but sighed in relief, reaching out to grasp the knob and fling it open, leaving this hell behind to rot in the back of his mind forever.

 

He was so unbelievably stupid to think it would work. The doors handle disintegrated upon contact, just like everything else he had tried to interact with. A mocking laugh echoed from what seemed like miles away, taunting him with his own hopes. It had caught on to his plan, efficiently rendering anything he could do in his power useless. His hand curled into a fist and he held his breath, closing his eyes to block out what was next. He didn't want to know. Of course, that hardly mattered. He clearly wasn't in control of his thoughts, not when they chose to run rampant in his skull like that.

 

Before he knew it, shallow breathing was filling the room- the warehouse, he somehow knew. Loud thuds accompanied it along with pained groans and the sounds of chains clinking together when their captive moved.

 

_Go on, where is it then? Word 'round here is you're mighty clever. Can't strut around like you know everything and just expect us to believe you're not, now can you?_

 

Another resounding thud, another barely stifled groan. His eyes opened unwillingly, his hand dropping to his side. The air chilled his skin, his mouth flooded with the taste of iron. He froze. There wasn't else much he could do as the thugs beat his hanging body senseless, demanding answers he... He didn't have. His breath hitched as his heart rate rocketed, threatening to tear through his ribcage. At this specific point in time, he wasn't just messing around. He really didn't know where the money was. He didn't know... _He didn't know... they had to see that!_

 

A knife gleamed in the gloved hands advancing on him, behind him so he couldn't see what they were doing. He watched in horror struck silence at his own beaten form hanging two feet off the floor, mesmerized by how completely unaware he was. He watched his own face the moment the blade penetrated his side, how his eyes widened in surprise and his pupils dilated. His mouth twisted into a howl, agony ringing through the air.

 

And then he was falling. It was like a movie skipping scenes every five seconds, forcing him to relive every moment he's locked away and then some. It felt like hours to him, drifting from one landscape to another, the ever present pain in his torso spreading inside of him. It carved itself into his rib cage, buried itself deep in his bones, wrapped around every nerve ending, intertwining itself into his very DNA.

 

He couldn't take it.

 

Several times he felt close to escape, only to be driven deeper into the pit of despair called his mind, the voice coming back to contribute it's truth. _Machine_ , it hissed in his ear. He sunk to his knees in whatever room he was in now, resolve crumbling. It was too much. He couldn't fight this anymore, just as he couldn't ignore it. The voice made that impossible, drilling into his head whenever he managed to block out a bad image.

 

_Heartless bastard!_ It snarled this time, abandoning its taunting tactic for that of accusation. _You don't care for anyone but yourself, you coward! Hiding under the title of sociopath is only an excuse to keep yourself safe!_

 

Though his hands covered his ears, fingers digging into the side of his head to stop the madness, nothing drowned out the indisputable facts he was coming to accept as truth. He deserved this and more, he was lucky it was only this; it was all true. Every word searing with hate was true. _All you do is drag others down. Everyone you meet has a death sentence hanging over their heads and its all your fault!_

 

"Enough," he choked, drawing further into himself, " I already know... Enough."

 

_That's the sad part, though, isn't it?_ The tone changed from rage to disgust in a matter of seconds. _You don't know anything._

 

"Stop!" He cried out, aware of where his track of thought was taking this.

 

_That's what you're really afraid of._ It continued. _With all the shit you get yourself into, you don't know how to stop it from spreading._

 

"This isn't about him! He has nothing to do with me!"

 

_How can you save others when you can barely save yourself?_

 

"Shut up!" A scream erupted from his throat. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" He raised his head, all ferocity disappearing when he came face to face with his brother. Mycroft's normally placant voice hovered just above a growl.

 

_"The east winds coming for you, Sherlock."_

 

Someone was screaming. An animalistic sound he'd never heard anyone utter before in his entire life. Screaming bloody murder over and over again, cries of anguish and pain that never seemed to end. He just wanted it to _end_!

 

It wasn't until after he felt the raw burning in his throat that he realized it was him screaming, and he couldn't _stop_.

 

Then he woke up. 


End file.
